“Lady?”
“No, not lady—woman, sir. Says she must see you, sir.”
“Must!” exclaimed Richard, scowling.
“Yes, sir, and will.”
“Tell her to call to-morrow; I’m engaged.”
Mr Bokes bowed and left the room, and his master continued—
“Limited liability companies generally, gentlemen, are becoming the ruin of our land. I don’t believe in them. You never see my name down anywhere as a director. Why, I’ve had no less than four applications—no less than four, gentlemen—to sell my little bit of a business, so that it may be formed into a company, with your humble servant to act as manager, with a noble price, a noble salary, and no end of shares into the bargain. But no, gentlemen; I am determined—Now, Bokes,” impatiently, “what is it?”
“Woman, sir—will see you, sir,” whispered the butler; “says I was to say ‘Borton Street,’ sir, and ‘Gone!’”
So strange a pallor overspread Richard Pellet’s face that it was observed by all his guests, as, rising with a forced attempt at a smile, he asked them to excuse him for five minutes.
“If she should only have made her way here to-night!” ejaculated Richard Pellet, as he passed the dining-room door, perspiring profusely the while. “If she were but dead—if she were but dead!”